The Growl of the Cold Box

When I first relocated to Denver, an old colleague named Mira invited me to stay at her place during the Thanksgiving break. She had mentioned that her apartment had a peculiar history, and there was another building across the courtyard with its own oddities. I was intrigued, though not entirely convinced.

My first encounter happened in the kitchen. I opened the freezer to grab a bag of ice, and a low, guttural growl rumbled from within, like a wolf warning a rival. I slammed the door shut, heart thumping. Mira, lounging on the sofa, laughed. ‘It does that sometimes,’ she said. ‘Only to guests, apparently.’ I decided not to test it again that night.

Later, I settled into the fold-out couch in the living room, the city lights filtering through the blinds. I drifted into a restless sleep. Around 3 AM, a faint, rhythmic scratching began, like nails on drywall, emanating from the closet. I lay still, hoping it would stop. Then the scratching turned into a whisper, too distorted to understand, but it felt like my name. I yanked the blanket over my head, but the sound grew louder, surrounding me.

Summoning courage, I swung my legs off the couch. The scratching ceased abruptly. A dead silence followed, so thick I could hear my own pulse. I tiptoed to the closet and threw open the door. Nothing but coats and a clutter of boxes. I exhaled, but then I noticed the mirror on the closet door had a strange film of frost, despite the room’s warmth. On the glass, written in a clear, sweeping script, were the words: ‘YOU LEFT THE ICE.’

I froze. I hadn’t touched the ice since the freezer incident. Trembling, I returned to the couch, but sleep was impossible. The growl from the freezer echoed in my mind, and the words seemed to burn in my memory.

The next morning, I confronted Mira. ‘What is this place?’ I asked. She looked at me with a knowing smile. ‘I think it likes you,’ she said. ‘It only speaks to those who accept its invitation.’ I packed my bags without another word, but as I left, I felt a cold draft from the kitchen, and the freezer let out a soft, almost contented hum. I never visited her again, but occasionally, when I open my own freezer at night, I swear I hear a faint growl, as if it remembers me too.